Murder in Belleville (2000)

by Cara Black

  What could she do now?

  Barbed wire crested the chain-link fence. But only a Bricard lock held the gate. She kept Anais’s bag around her, then reached for her makeup bag inside her backpack. She found the Swedish stainless-steel tweezers. Within two minutes she’d jimmied the lock open, muffling the clinking sounds with her sweater sleeve. That done, she wiped the sweat off her brow with her other sleeve and surveyed the bikes strewn around Anais.

  No way would she be able to pedal, steer, and grip Anais. She was exhausted. She noticed a beat-up but serviceable Motoguzzi moped by an oil can. It was like her own moped, but a lot older. And with more horsepower. One thing she knew about mo-peds—they could run on fumes for several kilometers, and if the spark plug was still good they might make an escape.

  After unscrewing the spark plug, she blew on it to get rid of the carbon, scraped corrosion off the pronged head with her tweezers, and screwed it back on. She shook the body from side to side to slosh any gas around, pulled out the choke, and prayed. She started pedaling. Silence. She kept pedaling and was finally rewarded by a cough. Good, she thought. Temperamental as these Italian bikes might be, with patience and coaxing they would deliver. With much more encouragement, the cough had developed into a full-throated hum, and she hoisted Anais up and urged her tourniqueted leg over the moped’s passenger ledge. Anais’s eyes fluttered, then widened. She pushed Aimee’s shoulder and tried to get off.

  “No!” Anais yelled. “I can’t do this.”

  “Got a better idea?” Aimee asked.

  In the distance the sound of a siren came closer.

  “I hate motorcycles,” she wailed.

  “Bien, this is a moped,” Aimee said, gunning the engine and popping into first. “Hold on!”

  Anais grabbed Aimee’s waist.

  “No matter what,” Aimee said, “don’t let go!”

  Aimee reached rue Ste-Marthe as the SAMU emergency van turned into rue Jean Moinon. Odd. Why hadn’t the fire truck arrived first?

  A black-and-white flic car cruised from rue de Sambre-et-Meuse, blocking the shortcut to the Goncourt Metro.

  “Let’s ask them for help, Anais.”

  “Non, nothing must connect to Philippe,” Anais said.

  Aimee’s heart sank as Anais’s fingers squeezed her in a steellike grip.

  She kept an even speed, afraid that going faster would invite curiosity. The flics veered in the other direction. Aimee turned into Place Sainte-Marthe, a small rain-soaked square, its single cafe closed for the evening.

  She noticed a dark Renault Twingo turn after her at the far end of the square. By the time the verdigris art nouveau Metro sign came into view, the car had edged close behind them.

  As if reading her thoughts, it pulled ahead. She drove near the closest Metro entrance, and the car cut in front of her. Its doors popped open, and two burly men jumped out.

  She veered away from them at the last minute but a bearlike man obstructed the wet sidewalk. The padlocked newspaper kiosk and the Metro stairs were in front of them.

  Aimee scanned the intersection, registering a few cars paused at the red light and Metro entrances on the other corners. Ahead a Credit Lyonnais bank stood opposite Credit Agricole, with a gutted cafe still advertising horseracing and a FNAC Telecom store facing that.

  “Anais, grab me tighter.”

  “No, Aimee!” Anais yelled.

  “You want to spend the night with these mecsl” Aimee asked. “Or in the Commissariat de Police?”

  “On y va,” Anais whimpered in answer, digging her fingernails into Aimee’s stomach.

  Aimee cornered the kiosk, zigzagged across the narrow street, and headed down the Metro steps, honking and screaming “Out of the way!” It took a minute before the thugs realized that the moped had plunged down the stairs and ran after them.

  Exiting passengers yelled and moved to the railing as she and Anais bumped and wobbled their way down. Aimee squeezed the brakes.

  Thank God Anais was a small woman! Even so Aimee’s wrists hurt from braking so hard with the handlebars. At the landing by the ticket window, plastic sheets and barricades for construction blocked their way. A uniformed man in the window shouted at them, shook his head, and pounded on the glass. The burning rubber smell from the moped’s brakes and black exhaust filled the air.

  The turnstiles were being repaired at night—just their luck, since the Metro carried fewer passengers than usual. But, Aimee also realized, she and Anais would be thug bait unless they could reach a platform, ditch the moped, and get on a train quickly.

  Blue-overalled workers, under glaring lights, drilled and hammered. Several of them stopped their work, snickering and catcalling. They grew quiet when they saw the smeared blood on Anais and her look of terror.

  “Tiens, this section’s closed,” one of the workers said. “Use the other entrance.”

  “Her salop of a boyfriend beat her up,” Aimee improvised.

  “No mopeds, mesdemoiselles.”

  “He’s trailing us—vowing to kill her,” she said. “We need help.”

  A large bearded man set down his drill and stood up.

  “Can’t you let us through?” she asked. “Please!”

  The man stepped forward, pulled the plastic sheets aside with a theatrical gesture, and bowed, “Entrez, mesdemoiselles, courtesy of the RATP. Please be our guests.”

  “Gallantry lives. Merci,” Aimee said.

  She revved the motor and shot past the construction. Hot air dusty with concrete grit met her. The moped shimmied as she drove through a puddle, the back wheel almost dovetailing. They sped along the tiled tunnel past Canal 2 posters to a fork.

  She paused. Two choices lay ahead—direction Chatelet or Mairie des Lilas. Which train would come first?

  The late-night Metro ran infrequently. No matter which train they took, Aimee thought, the men would split up and each take a platform. Even if she and Anais managed to get on a train, they’d be followed easily. If only Anais could walk or navigate!

  Either way they wouldn’t get far.

  To the right sat a man cross-legged on a sleeping bag. His shaved scalp shined in the overhead light. He watched them with an amused expression, pointing to his begging bowl.

  The tiles gleamed in the warm Metro. Blue-and-white signs proclaimed accis aux quais and sortie to avenue Parmentier. Her only solution would be to go up the exit steps on the left. Would the moped have enough juice to mount the stairs? Aimee doubted it.

  “Go for it,” Anais said, surprising Aimee.

  But how could she get Anais up the stairs on the moped? Her arms hurt, and with both their weights would the wheels go up?

  Shouts came from the ticket area.

  “Help us out, and I’ll make it worth your while,” she said to the homeless man.

  “How much worth my while?” he asked in a bargaining tone. But he’d stood up and dusted off his worn trousers.

  “This moped’s yours,” Aimee said, running her sleeve over her perspiring forehead and thinking fast. “If you help me get her to the top of the stairs. Deal?”

  “Why not?” He grinned, quickly gathering his bedroll.

  “Come with us to the stairs,” she said. “Quickly.”

  He ran toward the exit. Behind them she heard heavy footsteps.

  Aimee revved the motor and shot forward. The tunnel curved and she followed his trail. “If we just get halfway up, Anais, jump off, we can drag you the rest. Now lean into me and pray,” Aimee yelled. She’d worry about the Twingo if they ever made it to the top.

  At the first flight of stairs, she jerked up on the handlebars as much as possible and felt the bike respond. The tires churned, climbing several steps, the engine strained. But the moped climbed. Higher and higher. Aimee saw the dark tent of sky through the exit.

  The bike had almost reached the last set of steps when she felt the tires buck.

  Aimee had the sickening feeling of the bike rearing like a horse. She decelerated.

/>   The homeless man reached over and steadied Anais. “Get off; it’s too heavy!” he shouted. “We’ll guide her up.”

  Anais loosened her grip on Aimee.

  “Hold the handlebars, Anais,” Aimee said, getting off and putting her arms around Anais’s shoulders.

  Time slowed as she and the homeless man guided Anais on the moped up the Metro steps.

  The engine whined, snarled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man steady Anais so she didn’t topple into him.

  But the moped tipped over. Like a felled animal, it whined uselessly on its side.

  “Allons-y!” she yelled.

  Only a few more steps to the top.

  She grabbed Anais under the arms and together with the homeless man helped her hobble up the last stairs.

  “Merci,” Aimee said. “Tell them we took the Metro toward Chatelet.”

  “And they just missed you,” the man said, righting the moped. He took off down the sidewalk. Aimee hoped he’d keep their pursuers busy for a while.

  “Attends, Anais,” Aimee said lying on her stomach, peering around the cement divider near the Credit Lyonnais.

  She saw the Twingo, parked illegally on the opposite curb, and a dark-suited man watching in all directions. If she and Anais could join passersby and cross to the taxi stop on rue du Faubourg du Temple, they’d escape. Traffic idled at the intersection. Tree-bordered Canal Saint Martin lay in the distance.

  Aimee’s hopes fell as Anais moaned again. No way could she get her up and across to the taxi stop. A couple emerged from an apartment building, laughing and kissing each other, as they walked to the Metro.

  Aimee crawled around the divider, then helped navigate Anais behind some bushes. Cardboard was piled next to the kiosk, hiding them from view.

  “Keep low. I’ll get a taxi,” she said taking off her sweater and covering Anais. Aimee shivered in her damp silk shirt and spread a piece of cardboard across a major puddle. She crawled across to the curb, then crouched behind a plane tree. When another couple walked by she stood up, kept her head turned and crossed the street abreast of them.

  By the time the taxi driver, to whom she’d promised a good tip, pulled up on the sidewalk to pick up Anais, the driver of the Twingo had noticed them. He jumped in the car and started his engine.

  “Lose that car,” Aimee said to the taxi driver.

  Anais reached in her purse and pulled out a wad of franc notes. “Here, use this.” She shoved them in Aimee’s hand.

  “Here’s a hundred francs,” Aimee said. “There’s more if we make it out of the has quartier without our friend.”

  “Quinze Villa Georgina,” Anais managed, then collapsed on the seat. Aimee loosened the tourniquet, glad to see the bleeding had stopped, and elevated Anais’s leg.

  As they sped up the Belleville streets toward Pare des Buttes Chaumont, Aimee slouched down. The streetlights flickered through the taxi windows. Cafes and bistros held lively crowds despite the cold, wet April night. Aimee paused, remembering the mailbox with “E. Grandet” on it.

  “Why did you meet Sylvie?” Aimee asked.

  “I’d like to forget about it,” Anais said, holding back her sobs.

  “Anais, of course it’s painful, but if you don’t talk to me,” Aimee said, “how can I help?”

  Poor Anais. Maybe she felt guilty. Didn’t wives harbor thoughts of killing their husband’s mistress no matter how civilized the arrangement?

  “Sylvie arranged to meet me,” Anais said, rubbing her eyes. “Said she didn’t trust telephones.”

  “What happened?”

  “The entry door was open,” she said. Anais licked her knuckles, rubbed red raw in the dirt. “I went upstairs. The landing was spattered with pigeon droppings.”

  “The building looked ready to demolish,” Aimee said. “Did Sylvie live there?” Why would a woman who drove a Mercedes live in a dump like that?

  “Sylvie told me to meet her there. That’s all I know,” Anais said, her eyes downcast. “We argued right away.”

  “You argued?” Aimee said.

  The lights of Belleville blinked as they wound up the hilly streets. Aimee poked her head up, but saw no Twingo behind them;

  “My fault. I got angry,” Anais said, shaking her head. “All those years of lying … I couldn’t calm down. Sylvie kept going to the window. She made me nervous. I got mad and ran out the door.”

  Aimee wondered what Sylvie had been trying to tell Anais. Sylvie could have gone to the window to see if she’d been followed or was afraid Anais had.

  “Was Philippe aware you were meeting her?” she asked.

  “Why should he be? Philippe told me he finished with her months ago,” Anais said. “Things between us were getting better.”

  Aimee stared at Anais. Had she gone to make sure he’d kept his word?

  “Why did you want my help?”

  “Call me a coward,” Anais said, biting her lip. “I’m ashamed I thought she wanted money. But she asked me to forgive her.”

  “You mean forgive her for the past?”

  “Told me how sorry she felt over things escalating,” Anais said, breathing quickly.

  “Escalating?”

  “That’s the term the pute used. Can you believe it?” Anais shook her head. She leaned back and took more deep breaths.

  By the time they’d reached the angle where the streets met at Jourdain, the driver had definitely lost the Twingo. But he circled the winding streets around Saint Jean Baptiste Church several times to be safe.

  The taxi followed the terraced streets intersected by lantern-lined wide stone stairs. Nineteenth-century rooflines faded below them. At rue de la Duee, they turned into narrow, cobblestoned Villa Georgina. This little-known area, she realized, was one of the most exclusive and expensive pockets of Belleville.

  “I’m hiring you,” Anais said, “to tell me what this means.”

  She reached in her bag, pulling out the Fat’ma and another wad of francs. “Consider this a retainer.”

  “The Fat’ma?” Aimee said, as Anais put the bronze, blue-beaded talisman in her hand.

  Anais stuffed the francs in Aimee’s pocket.

  “Maybe this means nothing, but I want to know who killed her,” Anais said. “Find out.” Her eyes shuttered.

  “Anais, talk to Philippe. You’re in deep water,” Aimee said, exasperated by her reaction. “If they blew up Sylvie’s car and saw her pass something to you …”

  “That’s why you need to keep it,” Anais said, her eyes black and serious.

  Too bad this hadn’t helped Sylvie, Aimee thought.

  “My little Simone will think I’ve forgotten her,” Anais said, worry in her voice. “I always put her to bed.”

  Lights blazed brightly from the upstairs windows as the taxi pulled up.

  “Qnelle catastrophe—Philippe’s hosting a reception for the Algerian Trade Delegation!”

  “Worry about that later,” Aimee said. “Look, Anais, we’ve broken a chunk of the penal code tonight, I want to stop while I’m still free on the street.”

  “You’re in this with me,” Anais said, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry I dragged you in, but you can’t stop.”

  True. But Aimee wanted to run into the dark wet night and not look back.

  “Right now,” Aimee said, “we’ve got to get you inside.”

  She turned to the taxi driver and slipped him another of An-ais’s hundred-franc notes. “Please wait for me.”

  She helped Anais to a cobalt blue side door, set back along a narrow passage. After several knocks a buxom woman opened the door, silhouetted against the light. Aimee couldn’t see her face but heard her gasp.

  “Madame … ca va?”

  “Vivienne, don’t let Simone see me,” Anais said, as though accustomed to giving orders. “Or anyone. Get me something to put over this.”

  Vivienne stood rooted to the spot. “Monsieur le Ministre …

  “Vite, Vivienne!” Anais barked. “Let
us in.”

  Mobilized into action, Vivienne opened the door and shepherded them inside. She thrust an apron at Anais.

  “Help me get my jacket off,” Anais said.

  Vivienne gingerly removed the blood-stained jacket and dropped it on the kitchen floor.

  Anais staggered and clutched the counter, where trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up. Vivienne’s lips parted in fear, and she clutched her starched maid’s uniform.

  “But you must go to I’hopital, Madame,” she said.

  “Vinegar,” Anais whispered, exhausted by her efforts.

  “What, Madame?”

  “Soak the bloody jacket in vinegar,” Anais muttered.

  Aimee knew Anais was fading fast.

  “Vivienne, tell le Ministre she’s had a sudden attack of food poisoning,” Aimee said. Aimee surveyed the plates. “Those,” she pointed. “Tainted mussels. Apologize profusely to the guests.”

  “Of course,” Vivenne said, backing into kitchen drawers.

  “I’ll get her upstairs,” Aimee said, worried. “Bring some bandages. Towels if you have to; she’s bleeding again.”

  Aimee grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and tied it tightly around Anais’s leg.

  Vivienne picked up a tray of crudites and bustled out of the kitchen.

  They made it upstairs and down a dimly lit hall, the wood floor creaking at every hobbling step.

  “Maman!” said a small voice from behind a partially open bedroom door. “Where’s my bisou?”

  The child’s tone, so confident yet tinged with longing, rose at the end. Aimee melted at the little voice.

  “Un moment, mon coeur,” Anais said, pausing to regain her breath. “Special treat—you can come to my room in a minute.”

  Had she ever asked her mother for a goodnight kiss? Had her mother even listened? All Aimee remembered was the flat American accent saying, “Take care of yourself, Amy. No one else will.”

  In the high-ceilinged bedroom, with pale yellow walls and periwinkle blue curtains, Aimee helped Anais out of her clothes.

  She wiped the blood from Anais’s legs, helped her into a nightgown, then got her into bed. Aimee set several pillows beneath her leg. Again, after she applied direct pressure, the leg stopped bleeding. Thank God.